Temeraire!verse pt. 4

[whiskyrunner]

Untitled Temeraire!verse, pt. 4/4
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~7500
Rating: PG-13 [this part; NC-17 prior parts]
Author's Note: The Temeraire universe, if you haven't read the books, is essentially Regency Era/Napoleonic Wars, with dragons. Here is a chart showing the different breeds of dragon. Eames' Regal Copper is the big one at the top. Arthur's Greyling is one of the wee guys. Cobb rides a Chequered Nettle (a heavy-weight), Ariadne a Longwing (an acid-spitting middle-weight), and Mal a Flamme-de-Gloire (a fire-breathing French middle-weight). And that should be all you need to know!
Disclaimer: The Temeraire universe/alternahistory and dragon breeds are all Naomi Novik. The Inception characters are Chris Nolan's. I own nothing. Sad face.
part one, part two, part three


The summer, for Eames, dragged endlessly. Lucretia was happy enough to drill tirelessly at the covert, but Eames preferred when they were sent out on patrol by themselves or with another dragon and its crew. They both grew to enjoy working with the Turkish captain, Yusuf, who had a cheerful air about him. His dragon, Kiraz, was a stunning beauty-cream-coloured all over, with a metallic shine to her scales, and red and orange wings. She spoke no English, unlike Yusuf, who was quite fluent, but enough French to be able to converse with Rêveur, who seemed quite charmed by her.

Nash and his Yellow Reaper, Marius, were less pleasant to deal with. Nash was from an old aviator family, like Eames, and had always scorned Arthur, who was still as much gentleman as aviator; his Corps pedigree, Eames was quite sure, was the only thing that had earned Nash his promotion. It was a damned shame, really, that the Corps would insist on sticking to old blood even when it meant giving a complainer like Nash a dragon of his own, while a man like Arthur had to establish himself before even his sons could hope to someday captain a combat-weight dragon. Fortunately, Eames did not have to spend very much time working closely with Nash.

They were granted several days' leave while Cobb worked on training Christopher and Ariadne alone, and Eames, desperate to find some way to ease the passage of time before Arthur would return, sent a letter to his father by courier-dragon, and flew Lucretia to his family's estate the next day.

“Lucretia!” His father's tone was warm and loving as it never was when he spoke to Eames as he approached his former dragon. Eames had landed her in an empty paddock; as soon as she had lifted him down from the harness, she put her head down to greet his father with a contented rumble that shook the ground. Eames watched them, trying hard not to be envious. The bond between a dragon and its first captain could be replicated sometimes, but never replaced.

“Are you well?” Lucretia inquired anxiously, when she had withdrawn her head. “Are your joints paining you?”

“Oh, I am fine, my dear, just fine,” Eames' father said airily, waving a hand. “A bit stiff in the mornings, that is all. But look at you,” he said, drawing closer with concern. “Your harness is growing worn.”

Lucretia twisted her neck to peer at herself, alarmed. “It is?”

“I have my ground-crew oil her harness twice weekly, Father,” Eames interjected.

“And you watch the lazy louts to see that they do it, I suppose? No, of course not.”

“They do oil it,” Lucretia said earnestly. “I have a very good ground-crew, and Eames does take very good care.”

“The state of you speaks for itself. I should never have retired. Look at these scars-you are running this good dragon into the ground,” he told Eames.

Eames subsided, abashed and ashamed. How was any captain supposed to prevent the crushing of scales together underneath a harness-buckle, especially when the harness carried as heavy a load as Lucretia's often did? He should have tried wrapping them, as Arthur did for Felix's, even if Lucretia's harness was so many times larger and had so many more buckles.

“Please do not feel guilty, Eames,” Lucretia entreated when his father had headed back to the house, to fetch something he wanted to show her. “Even Titus has marks from the harness, and he is the handsomest dragon I know.”

Eames placed a hand against her snout wordlessly. He was doing the best he could; he wished his father would see that.

Soon his father was in sight, striding towards them with something in his arms. To Eames' surprise, his younger brother Matthew was stumbling along behind him in evident alarm.

“Here,” Eames' father said happily, thrusting the wrapped bundle toward Lucretia when he had gotten close enough. “Look, my dear, this will be your next captain.”

“Father-!” Matthew gasped, out of breath, having seemingly chased him from the house; but he blanched and scrambled away when Lucretia put her head down, very close, to sniff at the bundle.

“What is it?” she asked, puzzled, and she shifted her weight back onto her haunches to sit up, neck craning to her fullest height. “Oh, I see; it is all wrapped in blankets,” she said, and paused politely. “It is rather small to be a captain, John?”

“Don't you worry, he will grow to be a fine, strapping lad,” Eames' father said proudly. “He is my first grandson, Lucretia; he is named after me.”

“Oh,” she said again, and sank back down onto all fours to rub at her cheek with the side of one talon. Then she brightened. “Perhaps, in twenty years, when my egg at Laggan has hardened, he can harness the hatchling; then Eames and I may train them both.”

“No, no; he is for you, you see? After Eames.”

Lucretia paused again, and rubbed slowly at her cheek once more in contemplation.

At last she said, “No, I do not think I will like that. I do not think I will want any captain, after Eames. No-but thank you, John, he seems very fine.”

This last was a lie, as she was plainly baffled by the babe, but Eames felt his heart swell with fondness. He reached over and stroked her leg quickly. Eames' father was silent; then he turned and thrust the child back at Matthew, who received it carefully and hurried back toward the house.

“You have ruined this beast,” Eames' father said flatly, rounding on Eames.

“No, I have not,” said Eames. “She does not want another captain; it seems reasonable to me.”

“Of course, this would be much easier if the child were your own, but I have already accepted that I will never get a grandson out of you,” his father said in disgust.

Stung by this barb, Eames said, “I am only twenty-eight, I have plenty of time yet to be married.”

“You will never marry; you have always been terrified of women. If I had only known I would never have introduced you to the Corps,” his father said darkly. “Bad enough they should let women in, let alone men like you, and that midwingman, Arthur-”

Lucretia, following this conversation warily, put her head down and said, “Arthur is not a midwingman; he is a captain. He has a Greyling.”

Eames' father snorted unkindly. “A Greyling? They put him on a Greyling?”

“Yes; its name is Felix, and it is flying in my formation,” said Lucretia, “and it is a silly, flighty little thing, and I do not like it; but Eames says I may not say so in front of Arthur.”

“You say whatever you like about it,” Eames' father said fiercely. “Useless little beasts-as far as I am concerned, a proper dragon like you may say whatever she likes about a Greyling.”

“I hurt its feelings, last time I spoke to it,” said Lucretia, and this made him snort again.

“Greylings do not have feelings, Lucretia,” he said. “They are too stupid.”

Eames had supper in the house with his family: his mother, father, Matthew and his wife and their new baby; Eames' other, younger brother was away at school. Afterward, once he had returned to Lucretia, who had eaten several wild deer she'd caught, she lifted him onto the harness and they began the flight back to Laggan.

“I do not think that is right,” Lucretia said after an hour or so of silent flying. She tilted her head to look back at Eames. “That Greylings are too stupid to have feelings. Felix has feelings. He feels for Arthur.”

“You are right,” said Eames, taken aback, but taking care not to show it. He rubbed her scales. “Has my father said many things like that to you before?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, her neck-spines laying back; “he does not think Greylings or Winchesters are at all useful, as they are so small. But they are not all that stupid, or at least the Winchesters are not; and there are many people, not aviators, who would also say that all dragons are too stupid to have feelings, are there not?”

“You're right,” said Eames, surprised again at her astuteness. “Many people would say that. But we know they are wrong.”

“Then perhaps I am wrong, too,” said Lucretia, “about Felix.”

Eames smiled. She paused, and added, “But I still do not like him.”

He patted her shoulder. “That is good enough for me, Lu.”

+Near the end of summer, as Eames was making his way to Lucretia's clearing early one morning, Cobb hailed him.

“Can you go to Edinburgh?” he asked. “There is an injured courier that needs transport, and Lucretia is the only one in the formation I think we can spare-the rest still need work.”

“Of course,” said Eames. Privately, he wondered if Cobb could sense his restlessness. It didn't take a dragon as big as a Regal Copper to transport a single wounded courier. He went to Lucretia, and they set out alone, without a crew.

On a speedy dragon like Felix, it would have taken less than two hours to reach Edinburgh from Loch Laggan; half that if he were in a hurry. But Lucretia was a more sedate flyer, fortunately with plenty of endurance, and it was several hours before she reached the Edinburgh covert. Eames could sense her interest piquing before they even landed.

“Eames, that is Felix,” she said, before they were close enough for him to be able to see. She craned her neck, curious. “But where is Arthur?”

They landed at the covert, where they were given a wide berth by the servants, who were not used to heavy-weights, and especially not Regal Coppers. There was a small cluster of men, ground-crew by their dress, keeping a wary eye on the Greyling, who was, Eames saw as soon as he dismounted, indeed Felix. The little Greyling had been chained to the earth by his harness, and was making desperate, repeated bids for flight.

Eames was able to chase down a rather harried-looking captain who said, “Oh, yes, the Greyling. He appeared from the south and crash landed here-no captain. You may take him with you back to Laggan; we haven't the resources here to coddle a half-feral courier until it is fit to be used.”

“I see, thank you,” Eames said, feeling quite befuddled, and the other captain hurried off. He walked slowly to where Felix was, and was very nearly clipped in the head by one of the Greyling's wings.

“Careful, sir,” one of the spectators said promptly. “He'll have you.”

“I was told he was injured,” Eames said, giving Felix a wider berth.

“He is; you can see him favouring that wing, sir,” the same man said. “I don't think he quite realizes yet, though.”

Thus far Felix had only been uttering little cries of frustration; now he trilled out, “Let me go, let me go!”

“Steady, Felix,” Eames said gently, returning to stand in front of him, but Felix did not even appear to recognize him.

“You ought to have pinioned his wings,” Lucretia said to the other men, having moved closer to listen to their conversation. She reached with her forehands, waited for the half-second between Felix's desperate wingbeats, and snatched him up deftly with his wings folded against his side, the way she would pick up a cow. Felix squealed, all four legs kicking at the air, like a rat. “Like this,” said Lucretia.

“Lu, put him down!” Eames ordered sharply; the chains were creaking and pulling on Felix's harness. Lucretia looked at him, chagrined.

“He will hurt himself,” she said.

Eames frowned. “Hold him closer, so I may see him,” he said, and she obliged. Felix panted frantically in her hands, still wriggling, but made no move to snap or claw when Eames had a gentle feel of whatever he could reach. He could palpate no abnormalities, which meant the injury must have been done to the wing itself. Eames withdrew, and could see, now that the Greyling's mouth was open, the unhealthy pale pink pallor of his spearhead-shaped tongue, the tackiness of his saliva.

“This dragon is dehydrated,” Eames snapped, rounding on the men who were still watching. “Bring me some water, now.”

A few of them hastened to obey. Once they were gone, Eames turned back to Felix and said, “Felix, it is Mr. Eames; do you know me?”

“Put me down!” Felix squealed. “Down! Down!”

“She will put you down in just a moment, only you are injured, and if you continue to flap about like that you will do yourself serious damage, do you understand?”

“Down!” Felix wailed. He kicked his rear legs helplessly. “My captain is gone, I must find him!”

“And you will, and we will help you, but if you struggle like this, you will never find Arthur, so be still, Felix, please.”

Felix fell limp, panting, at last. After a minute he stirred and blinked at Eames. “Arthur?”

“Yes, Arthur,” said Eames. “Lucretia, you can set him down now, I think.”

She did, very gingerly. Felix drooped, defeated, barely able to support himself, and for the first time gave Eames a clear look at his injured wing. It hung awkwardly, bent in an unnatural skew; the bone was nearly protruding through the skin. Half-hidden by the dangling wing, there were deep gouges on his flank from another dragon's claws.

Eames whistled lowly through his teeth. No wonder the little beast had squealed so when Lucretia had picked him up. Lucretia, drawing back so she could see, muttered, “Oh, dear. I am sorry, Eames. I did not know.”

The water arrived then. Eames gave him a bucket at a time, slowly; Greylings were not as deft with their forehands as other breeds, and he could not lift each bucket to his mouth himself. While he lapped the last drops from each bucket, Eames very carefully palpated his left wing, felt how hot and swollen the joint was. It was broken, and not a clean break like Rêveur's had been; and it would worsen if Felix continued to thrash about.

“What happened to Arthur?” Eames asked, when Felix's thirst had been quenched.

“He was captured!” Felix said, with a panicky flap of his wings; the left beat at the air limply and Eames had to stroke his snout quickly to settle him. “He was captured and he told me to go, he told me to go to you, but now I am here and he is not here, why would he tell me to go here if he would not be here too!”

Lucretia snorted, and Eames leveled her with a stern look.

“Who captured Arthur, Felix?”

“Bad people!” Felix cried. “They will hurt him, he needs me!”

He burst into another flurry of fruitless wingbeats. Eames winced when his broken wing flapped awkwardly against his side, and Lucretia picked him up again, much more carefully this time. “Stop that,” she said.

“No, no, no!” Felix squealed. “No, no, no!”

He repeated this mantra several times before his movements subsided and she placed him on the ground again. A few of the men watching were nudging one another, raising their eyebrows. They thought Eames a fool for expecting to get information out of a Greyling. Eames flushed with defensive anger. Felix was not just any Greyling: he was Arthur's Greyling. He was a good talker and he was a steady, lion-hearted little thing, as evidenced merely by the fact that he was there, instead of halfway across the Continent, panicked and directionless without his captain.

“Felix,” Eames said, “did Arthur send you to me?”

“Yes,” Felix shouted, “and I do not know why, because you hate him!”

That was an unexpected slap. Eames blinked. Then he turned to the men.

“Help me to affix these chains to Lucretia's harness,” he said. “Don't let him go.”

They obeyed. One enterprising ground-crewman dug up an old bedsheet, and they wrapped this around Felix's midsection, effectively pinioning his wings to his sides so that he could not flap. Felix fought them, frantic and unhappy, but still did not bite or claw, as a feral dragon would. Once he was made secure to Lucretia's harness, Eames climbed to his place at the base of her neck and she took off.

“What shall we do now?” she asked Eames warily.

“Take him to Laggan, I suppose,” Eames answered, though he wasn't sure of this. Lucretia shared his thoughts.

“We ought to find Arthur.”

“We have no crew; it would be mad to make any sort of foray into France,” said Eames, but even as he said it his mind was working rapidly. “Perhaps ... if we see what the admiral thinks ...”

“They will do nothing; Felix is useless to them,” said Lucretia-somewhat callously, but there was a grain of truth there nonetheless. Felix was perhaps the most valuable Greyling in the Corps' possession, but even that did not go very far. There were plenty of Greylings to replace him should he fail to fly under another captain, and he wasn't the only light formation flyer they had. Feeling damned either way, Eames bowed his head.

“Continue on to Laggan,” he said. “At the very least-we can tell Cobb.”

Lucretia huffed, her sides belling out, to show what she thought of that idea. “And if Cobb says to do nothing?”

“Then ...” Eames glanced back over his shoulder at Felix, who was hunched, panting and miserable, on Lucretia's back. Slowly, Eames said, “Then I will desert, and go to France myself, and raid every prison on the Continent until I find Arthur.”

“I will go with you,” Lucretia said, turning her head so that she could look at him with one eye. Eames rubbed her scales lovingly.

“I know, my dear,” he said.

+Eames did not have to storm France by himself after all. They were halfway home, following the coast, when Lucretia turned her head and roared a sudden greeting. Eames, who'd been drowsing in the harness, startled awake and had his sword half-drawn before he realized they weren't under attack.

“Look, it is Rêveur,” Lucretia said happily, and she veered toward the coast, where indeed the Flamme-de-Gloire was soaring. Eames held onto the harness and said nothing, trusting her eyesight more than his own. When they drew near, he could see that it was Mal on the other dragon's back, and that they had no crew, and he relaxed.

They lit on the shore to speak. Rêveur was nearly recovered, Mal reported, and the surgeon had told her to take him for longer and longer practise flights, to restore the muscle and regain his endurance, but he could not carry a crew yet. Eames told her what had happened to Arthur, and why they were taking Felix back to the covert.

“The poor dear,” Mal said, examining Felix from the ground. Felix blinked his wide blue eyes at her, too exhausted to answer. Rêveur put his head down and hissed, drawing Mal jealously away.

“He is a captain-stealer,” he said.

“Arthur was not my captain,” said Lucretia indignantly, and Felix, in the same incensed tones, shrilled, “I have not stolen anyone!”

“No, of course not,” Eames said protectively, patting him. Mal swatted Rêveur, cowing him with a few sharp words in French, then turned back to Eames.

“How shall we get Arthur back, then?” she asked.

Mal had not been born to the aviators; the post had been thrust upon her when Rêveur had chosen her for his captain, similar to Ariadne's situation. Unlike Ariadne, however, Mal had little difficulty donning trousers and affecting her speech and mannerisms to seem more mannish. Mal was every bit the spitfire her dragon was, and truth be told, it was probably her own recklessness as much as his that had gotten his wing broken in battle. It should not have surprised Eames now that she was immediately ready to embark on some rescue mission.

“France has plenty of dragons; even the aviators cannot possibly know all the Flamme-de-Gloires by sight, and it will be easy to avoid them anyway,” Mal said. “At the very least I can find out where Arthur is being held.”

Lucretia was brightening. “Yes, that sounds very good,” she said, looking round at Eames hopefully. Their rashness must have been infecting him, because he nodded. He wanted Arthur back. He wanted Arthur with everything he had in him.

“You must not be captured, though,” he said to Mal. “They will execute you. They have fire-breathers to spare, and we do not.”

“I will be very careful, then,” Rêveur said, his tail lashing excitedly, eager to make himself useful again.

“We should leave now,” Lucretia told him, and Rêveur nodded. “I can bear you up, if you are tired,” she added, her excitement making her charitable.

“It is settled, then,” Mal said, implacable. She swung herself up onto Rêveur's harness. “Let us go, Captain Eames.”

+They used Felix as a guide. Couriers and scouts were usually familiar with landmarks, and the Greyling was able to give them at least a rough idea of where he'd reached England after fleeing France. He'd gone straight across the channel, and that was where they set up a rough camp and Mal departed. Eames looked out at the water and imagined the French dragons trying to keep up with Felix, and him effortlessly showing them his heels. He'd have been gone like an arrow from a bow even with those bloody wounds, trying to escape like Arthur had told him to. He must have gotten as far as he could before succumbing to exhaustion and pain, and crashed headlong into the lawn at Edinburgh, recognizing a covert; snapping his wing, and mangling it further when he realized they would not help him rescue Arthur, as he'd expected.

Poor Felix. Poor Arthur. Was he sitting in a prison somewhere, alone? Had he told Felix to find Eames solely to give his Greyling some tangible destination, or was he really waiting for Eames to break in and rescue him?

Lucretia was fast asleep on the ground, exhausted after the day's hard flying. They hadn't even reached this place until well after nightfall. Felix was awake, though, occasionally making a soft snuffling noise. Eames climbed onto the harness and sat down next to him.

“I want Arthur,” Felix was mumbling plaintively. “I want Arthur.”

“I know,” said Eames. “So do I.”

“I did not steal him,” Felix said miserably. “He is my captain.”

Eames laid a hand on the Greyling's soft snout. “I know you didn't steal him, Felix. Arthur loves you very much.”

“He loves you also,” said Felix. Eames looked down at him.

“What did you say?”

“He does. He tells me all the things about you. He says you do not love him. He is always sad when we see you. I am not, though,” Felix added conspiratorially, “I think you are nice.”

Arthur, sad?-because he thought Eames didn't love him? Eames loved him more than anything in the world, except for Lucretia. That was their problem. He thought Arthur had seen that, or that Eames had made him understand. If Eames didn't care, it would have been easy for them to remain on the same crew.

Eames took a deep breath. “I care about Arthur very much.”

This seemed to perk Felix up a little, for a moment. Then his head drooped again, and he gazed out across the channel. He missed Arthur. Eames stroked him a little. He was certain that, if not for the bedsheet and chains, Felix would be haring his way back to Arthur right then and there, even if he had to swim to France. What an amazing little creature, Eames reflected. What a boundless capacity for love. Arthur deserved a companion who would never fail him or waver in his loyalty.

Mal returned shortly before midday. She wasn't even being followed. Rêveur was careful to fly low, but a Flamme-de-Gloire was no unfamiliar sight over the channel.

“They are transporting some prisoners by ship,” she told Eames as soon as she jumped down from the harness. “It has already left.”

Eames heard a distinct scrape of chains as Felix sat up, excited, and said, “We had better find that ship, then.”

+It was Lucretia who spotted the ship first, a decent-sized transport vessel, and she had to support Rêveur's weight for a moment while Eames scrambled from her harness to his.

“I'll see you soon,” he promised Lucretia. She grunted and veered away, and he could tell she was offended by him flying on Rêveur. There was nothing else for it, though; at such close range Mal could not pass for a male captain, not if she spoke aloud. She pulled up her hood and clasped it, settling herself behind Eames, and issued a short command to Rêveur. He swooped down.

The transport made no sign of acknowledgement while Rêveur winged his way closer. They had no need to fear a Flamme-de-Gloire, one of their own. Rêveur made a few passes when they drew near, enough to capture their attention while Lucretia got into her position. Then he stooped and landed solidly on the forward deck, making the entire ship list slightly.

There were shouts of alarm from the crew. Some were scrambling for their swords or rifles. Rêveur spread open his jaws and hissed, flaring his throat to show that he was readying himself to breathe fire, and that stopped them cold.

“We are not here to take your ship,” Eames shouted. “Do not move.”

“Entendez!” Rêveur roared. “Nous ne sommes pas ici pour votre bateau. Attendez.”

The captain of the ship, red-faced and plainly unsure how to respond to being addressed by a dragon, turned and said something to his crew. Several of them began to scurry away.

“He is asking for pepper bombs,” Mal said, in Eames' ear.

Before the crew could get very far, however, the ship gave a groan and began to tip perilously in the water. Several of the sailors lost their balance on the steep pitch and fell, shouting, toward the stern, where Lucretia had risen out of the water to pull the ship down. She let go suddenly and sent the ship crashing back down, causing water to splash over the bow. Some of it hit Rêveur, and he hissed.

The captain rapidly issued what sounded like more commands, then turned back to Eames and said, in heavily-accented English, “What do you want?”

“Your prisoners,” said Eames. Rêveur translated, “Votre détenues.”

The captain shook his head. “They are French prisonierres de guerre.”

Rêveur raised his head and blasted a stream of fire into the air, causing another flurry of panic. It was plain that the sailors were afraid of dragons, and fire-breathers were historically the bane of ships. Rêveur leaned very close to the captain, who to his credit did not flinch, and said something in French that Eames did not catch. Hastily, the captain turned and motioned to his officers for a brief discussion.

“What did you say to him?” Eames asked. Rêveur snorted a puff of smoke through his nostrils.

“I said he could surrender the prisoners and keep his life and his boat, or he could continue to argue with us.”

“I could have made that much clear,” Lucretia said sulkily, lifting her head over the side; she had paddled round to their end, her air sacs keeping her easily afloat. Felix was whisking his tail anxiously on her back.

Without much more delay, one of the officers went below and returned with a straggly line of men behind him, about two dozen or so prisoners, mostly English by the looks of them. Eames got down from Rêveur's back hurriedly, scanning their faces for one in particular, his heart bounding. Lucretia hissed when the French captain started toward Eames, sending him back.

And there he was, looking as cool and composed as ever among the wide-eyed prisoners, who looked like they would rather go back down than approach either of the dragons. Arthur looked like he was just coming up for a stroll around the deck and a breath of fresh air, utterly unperturbed.

Eames was just about to go to him, but he was not fast enough. Someone else had seen Arthur. With a sharp snap, Felix finally pulled free of his harness altogether, and went bounding up Lucretia's neck onto the deck-straight into the open arms of his beloved captain, who wrapped both arms around his neck and murmured a greeting to him that Eames could not hear over Felix's desperately happy keening. Arthur put their faces together, closed his eyes and smiled.

Suddenly embarrassed, Eames turned away. “Right,” he shouted to the other prisoners, “you're going to be flown out, unless you'd rather stay here, which is fine by me. Anyone who would like to return to England can climb down onto the Regal Copper there.”

He bullied and cajoled them onto Lucretia's back, making them loop their limbs through her harness or attaching themselves with their belts if they had one. In the end all of them opted to go with Eames, though very few seemed happy about it. At last, Arthur guided Felix carefully onto Lucretia's back, with his wings still wrapped, and used the last scraps of harness that remained to fasten him to Lucretia's.

The French captain was watching them anxiously to see that they would hold up their end of the agreement. At Eames' nod to Mal, Rêveur crouched and sprang into the air, making the ship rise in the water again. Eames himself climbed onto Lucretia last.

“Merci,” he told the captain.

Then, with a great slap and heave of her wings, Lucretia forced herself aloft and was in the air.

+Rêveur headed north-west, straight for Loch Laggan. Lucretia's flight was more sedate, as she was so worn out. When they landed to let the prisoners go, Eames set to finding something for the dragons to eat. He located some cows, and paid for three: two for Lucretia, and one for Felix, whose eyes were as round as saucers when he saw it. While he ate voraciously, Arthur unwrapped the bedsheet from around his middle and examined his injuries.

They coaxed Felix to climb into Lucretia's belly rigging, where he could lie more comfortably. She made a repeated huffing sound as he wriggled his way up against her belly, and at Eames' look, defensively, she said, “He is very tickly.”

Out of Felix's ruined harness, they improvised one for Arthur, working silently over the leather straps together. Then he climbed up to sit with Felix, and Lucretia lifted Eames onto her back, much restored with two cows in her, and she lifted off. Eames did not feel very much like talking, and was glad when she did not try to engage him.

After an hour's flying or so, Eames heard the distinctive click of carabiners and glanced round to see Arthur making his way steadily up Lucretia's side. He continued upward until he had reached Eames' perch at the base of her neck. He wasn't even out of breath; climbing the harness was evidently not a skill he had lost.

For a minute he sat beside Eames, staring out over the landscape. Then he said, quite low, “You are right, after all.”

“Of course I am,” Eames said. “What about this time?”

“My leg has not hurt in many months,” Arthur admitted. “But now, climbing her harness again, it is aching, a little.”

It was as much an olive branch as Eames would ever get. He took it.

“How is Felix?”

“Sleeping, at last. I sense he has not slept a wink since I last saw him.”

“What do you make of his injuries?” Eames asked.

“Well,” Arthur said, after a pause. “I am no dragon-surgeon. But the other dragon tore through a muscle at the base of his wing, and if that were not bad enough, he has badly mangled the wing itself. Eames, I don't know that he will ever fly again.”

“Of course he will,” Eames said, startled. Arthur looked very tired and resigned.

“He will not fly straight, I know that. Not if his wing sets the way it is. And he will never fly long distances again. I expect the admiral will have him sent to the breeding grounds to wait out the rest of his days.”

Eames could tell Lucretia was listening, and he was relieved when she made no comment about Arthur returning to her crew.

“I am damn sorry, Arthur,” he said with feeling.

“I should not have gotten myself captured,” Arthur said, with raw, deep regret. “I let him down.” He lifted his head slightly, and gave Eames a small, forced smile. “I suppose I let you down as well. I know this was not what you had in mind when you put me on Felix.”

Eames gave a rough, startled laugh. “Arthur, I worry about you far more when you are off with Felix than I ever did when you were on my crew,” he said. “I was fully aware of the risks of your vocation when the admiral asked me if I knew of an officer who was skilled and game enough to tackle it.”

It was Arthur's turn to look startled. He did little more than stare at Eames for a moment.

“I thought-” he said, and stammered. “I thought putting me to Felix was your way of-keeping me out of harm's way. Coddling me,” he said, lower. And then, even softer: “Like a woman.”

“Arthur, for God's sake,” Eames said heatedly. “I have never coddled you. I knew what you could do with a Greyling and I told the admiral so. And I was right, you have trained the best light-flyer in the entire damn Corps and a first-class spy to boot, so don't sit there and tell me I've been coddling you when you have been risking your neck every time you are off on some assignment. I spend half my nights ill with worry for you.”

“I thought you had stopped caring,” Arthur said.

“Well, I never did,” Eames snapped. “I never have. I love you as much now as I did then, and yet to hear you talk, Felix thinks I hate you.”

“I have never told him that. I suppose he is capable of drawing his own conclusions, though,” Arthur said dryly, “even if he is a Greyling.”

Eames' shoulders tensed. “All right, so perhaps I haven't been as close to you as I used to be.”

“You have been running away from me since Felix hatched,” said Arthur. “Every time I try to speak to you, you avoid me. Even Felix can see that.”

“I thought ... you hated me, too,” Eames admitted. “For ruining your career.”

Arthur snorted. “Then the Greyling is smarter than either of us. He has tried to tell me you still care, and I never believed him.”

Eames offered him a small, sheepish smile. “We are idiots, aren't we?”

“Undoubtedly.” Arthur returned his smile feebly. He looked careworn now as he had not on the ship, as though his ordeal were only just catching up with him. His capture had been brief but no doubt unpleasant. As if he had read Eames' thoughts, he said, “I should have known you would come for me.”

“You doubted me?” Eames asked, mock-affronted. Arthur's smile widened.

“Not for a second,” he said. “Not really.”

Eames reached over, twining their fingers together wordlessly. Arthur glanced across at him.

“Have you ever thought about what you will do when you retire?” he asked. “Assuming we rout the French, of course.”

“I had never thought about it,” Eames said.

“I have,” said Arthur. “I often pictured you finally putting all the prize-money Lucretia has earned you to use, and buying a country estate somewhere, with enough land to support fresh livestock for her.”

“No breeding grounds for Lucretia?” Eames asked, and Arthur shook his head firmly.

“You would never stand to be parted from her,” he said.

And suddenly it occurred to Eames. He had felt eclipsed by Felix, and he was, in Arthur's affections. But Arthur had been coming second to Lucretia since they were children. He had always stood patiently in her shadow, waiting for Eames to come to him, never begrudging him the attention he spent on the dragon that could have been spent on Arthur. He had stood by those nights Eames had spent with her, coaxing her to eat after she'd been injured in a battle; waiting for Eames to come to bed with him, saying nothing when he did not.

Arthur had always understood. He had always borne his status as second fiddle patiently. Eames would just have to learn to do the same.

“In my imagination,” Arthur said, looking down, “I was there, too.”

“You still are,” Eames said, and tilted Arthur's face up for a kiss.

+After Felix's wing healed, crookedly as Arthur had anticipated, it was the Turkish captain Yusuf's idea to rebreak it. Felix screamed shrilly when his wing was broken, but Arthur had promised they would need no restraints, which would only panic the Greyling; and as he was standing at Felix's head, soothing him, Felix barely budged. The process only took a minute; then they were wrapping his wing, setting it properly. Eames lingered long enough to see this done; then he joined his crew and Lucretia, and they were off with the rest of the formation.

Arthur had been surprised to see Christopher at the end of the summer, when Eames and he returned to Laggan.

“Christopher, you have grown,” he'd said, and the Longwing had preened, self-satisfied.

“I have a crew now,” he said smugly. “Six men.”

“That sounds very handsome,” Arthur said, giving him a pat. Turning to Christopher's captain, Arthur said, “Miss Ariadne, I hardly recognize you”-for her hair had been cut short and tied back, and she held herself with much more self-confidence. She laughed.

“Mal has been teaching me to be less ladylike.”

“Well,” Arthur had said, shaking her hand, “I am happy to say I was wrong about you, Captain Bishop.”

Watching them, Eames had gained a better perspective on their relationship, as well. Ariadne was a remnant of Arthur's old, genteel life; a life that seemed a very far cry from the rough-and-tumble of the Corps. He was not courting her. He was protecting her. Eames felt foolish for not having seen it before. Even having observed the change in Ariadne himself, Arthur would always be something of a brotherly figure to her.

Now Christopher had reached adult size, though, with yet more room to grow but large enough to possess a full crew, something he was very proud of. The morning they rebroke Felix's wing, the formation took flight, battle-capable at last. As Lucretia made a pass over the courtyard, Eames caught a glimpse of Felix craning yearningly in the formation's direction, Arthur at his side, one arm raised in farewell. He hoped the little Greyling would heal enough to fly again, but he knew what Arthur had said was correct. Felix would never fly long distances again.

They had been defending the channel for five long months when word came that the formation's light-flyer had finally arrived. Eames went to greet the new captain, trying to swallow his resentment, and was astonished when Felix appeared in the dying light of sunset and alit in front of him, with Arthur sliding gracefully down from his back.

For a second Eames was too surprised to do anything more than pull Arthur into a fiercely tight embrace; then, stepping back, he said, “He is fully healed, then?”

“And as fleet as ever,” Arthur said, slapping his dragon's haunch warmly. Felix craned past him to butt Eames' shoulder happily.

“How is his endurance?”

“Not half what it used to be,” said Arthur, “but I had an idea that the admiral thought would be worth a shot.”

“Tell me later,” Eames said. “Come to my room first so that I may greet you properly.”

“I need to find Felix a clearing-”

“Do that, then,” Eames said, “and I will get him a sheep, and then we will go to my room, where I will ravage you-”

“Sheep!” Felix interrupted, his blue eyes shining.

+Lucretia was much aggrieved by Arthur's idea.

“His little talons stick in me,” she complained. “And he cannot keep still, and he is heavy.”

“He hardly weighs a thing, Lu, I could carry him,” Eames argued.

She sniffed. Arthur added, “That is why we are asking you, the strongest dragon in the formation. He will weigh down anyone else. Imagine Christopher trying to carry him.”

Lucretia softened at that. “Oh, very well, if I must. Only because I am so strong,” she said, “and the others are not.”

That was how, the next time they set out to defend a British fleet, Felix flitted ahead to scout, and then came winging back and landed precisely on Lucretia. Arthur sent him out again several minutes later. He had a good measure of what Felix could bear, and always reined him in just before he began to flag, so that he did not strain himself.

He was flagging the next time he came back, with a French formation behind him. “Tell him to hold tight,” Eames shouted back to Arthur, and Lucretia grunted very pointedly as Felix dug his little claws in.

They defended the ships stoutly. It always made Eames' blood rush to be in battle again, after training at Laggan for so long. The French dragons alternated attacking the fleet and the formation, to keep both on their toes, but Cobb, who was in charge due to his experience, seemed to guess where they would be each time, and they held the French dragons at bay. Arthur sent Felix up high when Lucretia was engaged, watching for attacks from above, and gave warning before a stealthy Petit Chevalier could drop on top of Christopher.

The thwarted dragon made straight for the rear of the formation, trying to use its bulk to scatter them. They held together grimly, Kiraz and Titus and Lucretia-but, at the last moment, Nash's dragon Marius on Lucretia's right flank broke away in fear, exposing her. The Chevalier made straight for her. They collided hard in midair, Lucretia roaring as the other dragon clutched at her with its talons, opening gashes on her shoulders; then she managed to gain a hold on its neck, and they grappled mightily while their crews in the belly-rigging exchanged fire.

Felix dropped out of the sky like a grey streak. Before the other dragon or its captain saw him coming, he landed directly on the Chevalier's head and clung on. He plucked its eye out in his teeth and was off before the Chevalier's crew even knew what had happened, while the great dragon wheeled away from Lucretia, roaring in pain and thrashing its wings blindly.

“Have you ever seen a light-flyer go directly for a heavy-weight in combat like that, sir?” Eames' lieutenant Briggs asked, awed.

“No, I have not,” Eames said. Felix had landed on Titus' back while Lucretia was straightening herself out, and Arthur was patting his neck, smiling down at his dragon fondly. “He has a very good captain, though. I think that makes all the difference.”